Love Letters From Old Mexico
by Sadie Flood
Summary: Amy takes her leave. (DA, post-Co1.)


Disclaimer: Not mine.  
  
Spoilers: "Constituency of One."  
  
Pairing: Donna/Amy.  
  
"I expected to see you at the party," says Donna, unlocking her door without a glance in Amy's direction. "Is it really that bad?"  
  
"Turns out I wasn't fired," Amy says, staying on the floor a moment longer than necessary. "But I think I quit."  
  
"You can't do that." Donna gets the door open and walks inside, tossing her keys into the designated dish and sitting down hard on the couch. Amy leans against the open doorway.  
  
"I was never a good fit for the job, anyway."  
  
"Of course you were," Donna says, sympathetic by default. "You are. She needs you."  
  
Amy waves her hand dismissively.  
  
"More than ever, right now. I'm sure you didn't quit."  
  
"I'm telling you, I did. I said the words. Then he--"  
  
"Josh?"  
  
"The president."  
  
"He unfired you?"  
  
"Yeah. I don't know. It was weird."  
  
Donna's feeling restless; she wants to get this part of the evening over with already. "Are you coming in?"  
  
"I haven't been invited." But she smiles, and closes the door.  
  
"I'm not upset with you," Donna clarifies.  
  
"You should be. I would be, if you were me and I were you."  
  
"I should be, but I'm not. I mean, I understand. You're Veronica, and I'm Betty, and this is how it goes." She hands Amy a beer that's unseasonably cold.  
  
"Betty and Veronica were friends, weren't they?" Amy asks, taking the bottle, but staying a safe distance away.  
  
"Yeah." Donna settles back into the couch.  
  
"Are we?"  
  
"Of course. You're in my house, drinking my beer." Pause. "I make my enemies drink outside."  
  
Amy smiles again, examines the brand name on the label. The taste is horrible. Who cares? "I'm thinking about moving to Mexico."  
  
"Do you speak Spanish?" Donna asks, her eyes closed. Amy sits down on the floor beside the couch, close enough to touch, but facing away.  
  
"A little."  
  
"'Un peu.'"  
  
"That's French."  
  
"I know. I never learned Spanish."  
  
"I can say, 'Uno mas cerveza,'" Amy points out.  
  
"Sure, but can you say, 'Hey, don't steal my pesos?'"  
  
"I'll buy one of those English-to-Spanish phrasebooks," she says, and the edges of each word seem inappropriately sharp. She rolls the taste around on her tongue, around and around, and wonders why Donna would have ever bought this. Maybe someone ordered it for her in a bar once, and she liked it. Maybe she liked the sound of the name. She wants to ask. She doesn't. Around and around, over and over.  
  
"He's not pissed at you, you know."  
  
"Could have fooled me," Amy says, making it sound like she doesn't care.  
  
"I mean, he is, but not really. He's not even pissed at me, even though I threw him a party he didn't want."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
Donna hesitates. "Sam didn't call."  
  
"Oh," Amy says, pausing. "Well, I don't blame him." Because it's a joke. "Apparently Josh doesn't do birthdays well. You could've warned me."  
  
"I could have," Donna agrees.  
  
Amy leans her head back. "Why don't you come with me?"  
  
"To Mexico?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Hey, I still have a job."  
  
"I'm serious."  
  
"You are not."  
  
"I'm not. So, are you coming?"  
  
"I don't think so. All my money would get stolen."   
  
"Your money won't get stolen," Amy promises, setting down the bottle and vowing to drink no more from it; maybe that's the reason, maybe the bad taste is intended to deter guests from drinking too much, or overstaying their welcome.   
  
" And my parents would think I'd been kidnapped."  
  
Amy laughs. "Haven't they already disowned you for working for a Democrat?"  
  
"No," is all she says.  
  
"They have telephones in Mexico. I think."  
  
"Maybe you can write me a postcard when you get there."  
  
"If I'm not too drunk. What would it say?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
"'Fuck you for not coming,'" Amy guesses.  
  
"Mm. Try again."  
  
"Better late than never.'"  
  
"Getting warmer," Donna says, absently threading Amy's hair through the fingers of one hand.  
  
"'Wish you were here'?"   
  
She isn't looking, but she hears the smile in Donna's voice. "Yeah," she says. "I like that one."  
  
Amy sighs. "It's no use. You're just gonna sit around being Susie Trueheart forever."  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not."  
  
"It's true, though. You'll never leave him."  
  
"You're never going to get anywhere this way," Donna helpfully points out.  
  
She lifts an eyebrow. "Who says I'm trying to get somewhere?"  
  
"Aren't you trying to get me to come to Mexico with you?"  
  
"Eh. Maybe I'll ask someone else."  
  
"Ouch," Donna whispers into her empty bottle, sliding off the couch to sit beside Amy on the floor, like they're teenagers.   
  
"Think C.J.'d wanna go to Mexico?"  
  
"Right now? Maybe."  
  
"So, there's one possibility."  
  
"I think you should go for it," Donna says.   
  
"You want me to take someone else and write you suggestive postcards on the side?"  
  
"Is it too much to ask?"   
  
"Yeah," she says. "I think it might be."   
  
Donna hesitates, then: "I don't want him."  
  
Amy smiles at the wall. "I know. We went over that already."  
  
"I just thought... it sounded like." The sentence falls apart, her intentions crumbling like clay feet. "Yeah," she finishes, rather lamely.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Donna pretends not to have heard. "What?"  
  
"Why not?" She enunciates clearly this time.  
  
"Why don't I want him?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why do you?"  
  
"Who says I do?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure you did, at some point, or else he wouldn't keep coming back." Donna blinks rapidly, as if she's just been amazed by her ability to string together those words in that order without stopping.  
  
Amy waves a hand dismissively. "It's just a thing. It's something to do."  
  
"He doesn't think of you that way." Donna shakes her head.   
  
She shrugs it off. "Who cares? I'm blowing this joint tomorrow, anyway."  
  
"Right." Donna smiles like she's amused, because she can't think of anything else to do.  
  
"I can't tell him the truth."  
  
"I know." Donna pretends to finish her beer, and pulls herself to her feet.   
  
Amy looks up at her from the floor. "You're mad."  
  
"Why should I be? I'm not telling him, either." She pauses. "But, then, I'm also not sleeping with him."  
  
"It's the easiest way to deal with him."  
  
Donna smiles pleasantly. "I know."  
  
"It's not going to happen anymore, anyway."  
  
"Right. Mexico."  
  
Amy stands up, looks at her with something dangerously close to pity. "Not just that."  
  
And she kisses Donna, and this is supposed to make everything okay, because it always does; this is the easiest way Amy can think of to deal with anyone, apparently. Still, she falls for it every time, even though it's probably as much of a lie as Amy claims it is with him.  
  
In the morning, the toothbrush Amy keeps on Donna's sink for occasions like this has disappeared. Donna practices her smile in the mirror, and empties her head. "No, I haven't heard from her," she says to herself, keeping her tone light. Feigning innocence has never been a stretch. "Where could she have gone?" Maybe that's a little over the top. She can't tell.  
  
Josh is irritable all day, creating a predictable rhythm: snap, apologize, snap, apologize... Then:  
  
"Hey, has she called?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"'Who?'"  
  
"Amy?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No. Why?"  
  
"She's not here, she's not answering at home. She didn't answer last night, either."  
  
Donna's smile doesn't slip. "Well, she hasn't called."  
  
And it might simply be the paranoia that inevitably accompanies keeping a secret, but she is certain he looks at her strangely before shrugging his shoulders and walking away, already distracted by another subject.  
  
Time passes. She half-heartedly amuses herself with a series of short-lived liaisons with strangers and friends (but never him). Her mailbox refuses to yield postcards, from Mexico or otherwise. Her phone rings, but she knows better than to expect that kind of courtesy, and so she is never disappointed.  
  
With every passing morning, she is able to convince herself further that she never knew that woman at all.  
  
And even if that's as false as her smile, no one will ever be the wiser. 


End file.
